


Relative Difficulties

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Gen, Mild Language, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2523986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ardsley Wooster's disreputable Uncle Septimus may be nothing compared to Violetta's family, but at least she feels a little better to know that she isn't the only person with at least one awful relative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relative Difficulties

**Author's Note:**

> First-person POV, Ardsley Wooster. The style is deliberately intended to be late nineteenth-century, because he both dresses and behaves in a much more historically accurate way than any of the other characters, so it's reasonable that he should write in that way. I don't know how well that is going to go down with modern readers; it's an experiment, more than anything.

Violetta and I have been rather thrown together lately. I don't mean in any kind of romantic way, of course. After all, for one thing I'm hardly of the right social standing, and for another thing, even if I were, she is a Sturmvoraus. But, with Zeetha spending every spare moment ensuring that the Lady Heterodyne keeps up with her warrior training, and Krosp off doing whatever cats do when nobody is watching, that does leave Violetta and me together quite frequently, and so we are becoming good friends. She has even been teaching me a few of her Smoke Knight skills, and I am happy to learn; with the possible exception of Krosp – and even that, I fear, is doubtful – I am the weakest fighter in the group. Not that I am a poor fighter, viewed in general terms, but the ladies have all had much better training than I have.

On this particular occasion, however, we were not sparring, mainly because I had hurt my wrist doing so the previous evening. Violetta had strapped it up for me and given me one of her potions, which had relieved the pain admirably, but she still insisted that I should rest it. So we were sitting and talking about the usual variety of subjects, and, as often happens, eventually the conversation turned to her family.

I sympathise with Violetta. I really do. Anyone with an atom of human feeling would do so. The entire Sturmvoraus family appears to spend all its time plotting and scheming, and when it is not doing this against other people, it is doing it against other parts of itself. A house divided, and all the rest of it; yet somehow it not only still stands, but still wields considerable power. Violetta, to be fair, does seem to be quite fond of her Cousin Tarvek in a somewhat back-handed way, but she has nothing good to say about her Cousin Martellus, and she strongly suspects all her other relatives. It is an entirely logical attitude, and to be honest I am amazed that she has turned out as well-adjusted as she is, coming from such a family.

“It's nice that you understand, Wooster,” she said. “Especially since you don't seem to have this kind of problem. I know you lost your mother, and that's sad, but you're always getting letters from uncles and aunts and cousins, and I'm sure they're not all disguised official dispatches.” She gave me a sideways smile.

“No, indeed, they're not,” I replied. “I do get on well with most of my family, and yes, many of them do write. I don't hear so often from my mother's side, but of course they are mostly in India.”

“Actual Indian, or British Indian?” she asked curiously. “If that's not an impertinent question.”

“Oh, actual Indian. My mother was half Indian,” I explained. “I have an Uncle Rajesh and an Aunt Priyanka in Lucknow, and I hear from them a couple of times a year, but very rarely from the cousins on that side, unfortunately. One day I would rather like to go over there. It's oppressively hot, so I'm told, but very beautiful.”

She grinned. “Well, if you do go, you'd better dress for it. Those stiff collars and fancy waistcoats are very nice, but they'll wilt in five minutes in Lucknow and so will you.” She tilted her head. “What do they wear over there, anyway?”

“Probably a kurta. At some point I'll find you a picture of Uncle Rajesh wearing one, so you can see the sort of thing I mean.”

“H'mm.” She considered. “Don't you have any awful relatives at all, Wooster?”

“Well,” I admitted, “as a matter of fact, I have. I've got an Uncle Septimus. But, really, by comparison with your awful relatives, he's not even really worth mentioning.”

“Oh, no, don't think like that,” she protested. “I mean... that is, I'm sorry you've got an awful relative, but at least now I know I'm not the only one. So what's so awful about him?”

“Oh... well, honestly, on the Sturmvoraus scale he's nothing at all,” I said. “I mean, he's not out to take over half of Europa, kill anyone, swindle anyone – at least, not as far as I know – or cause massive political instability among his rivals. He's just deucedly embarrassing, that's all.”

“Well, that's quite bad enough,” she observed, with a little grin. “Especially since, if you don't mind my saying so, you do get embarrassed a little easily.”

“Cultural differences, Violetta,” I explained. “We don't do things in quite the same way in England as they are done over here, and, although I'm mostly used to that by now, I'm still occasionally taken aback. In England, for instance, no young lady would even consider travelling on a train dressed only in, ahem, a towel.”

Violetta chuckled. “Oh yeah. Agatha told me how you reacted to that. And it wasn't just because of Gil, was it?”

“Great Scott, no. I was genuinely shocked. Of course, I did collect myself after a few moments, but... you know, when you're brought up with the understanding that certain things simply aren't done...”

She smiled. “Don't ever change, Wooster. I know I laugh at you a little sometimes, but I don't mean it. You are very gentlemanly.”

I think I must have blushed, for she quickly continued, “So tell me about your terrible uncle, then. If it won't embarrass you too much to do so.”

“Well, all right,” I said. “Provided it doesn't go any further, and in particular I wish you not to tell Zeetha in any circumstances. She is brave and loyal, but she also has rather less subtlety than a bar full of fighting Jägers, and I can certainly manage without her teasing me about my uncle.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” she assured me.

“Very well, then,” I said, and I proceeded to tell her the following story.

Some years ago now, I was in Paris with Master Gil. On the whole, it was an enjoyable time, though I must confess that it did have its own embarrassing moments, independently of any roving uncles. I am hardly slandering Master Gil when I say that he had a reputation as a libertine, since the fact was well known even outside Paris. It would, however, be unfair to go into any specific detail. Be that as it may, he was lively and intelligent company, we were close friends, and Paris itself was delightful. I would go out for a drink with Master Gil in the evening, and when my presence became, shall we say, surplus to requirements, I would discreetly withdraw to the nearest park and start sketching. I was never particularly good at it, but there is something about Paris which encourages creativity, and I am quite sure I enjoyed my evenings in my own way just as much as Master Gil did in his. I never, incidentally, attempted to sketch Master Gil. I do not think he would have been satisfied with any drawing which fell short of perfection, and mine invariably did.

One balmy evening in late June, I had been trying to draw some swans on the Seine. The exercise was rather beyond my level of skill, but I can be determined at times, and it was quite dark by the time I eventually packed away my sketchbook and charcoal. I had, at least, managed one reasonable swan, even if the others were still little more than vague outlines; and that was not a bad evening's work, since swans will not pose for their portrait even if one tempts them with crumbs. It was quite a walk back to my lodgings, and consequently I was still on the main street at a quarter to midnight. There was a nightclub I always passed on that route; Master Gil had tried it just once and given up on it in disgust, a fact from which you may draw any conclusions you wish. And, as I walked past it, the doors opened sharply, and a rather large, extremely inebriated gentleman – if I may use that term – came flying down the steps under the impact of a heavy boot, and landed in a sprawling heap at my feet.

It was, as you have no doubt guessed, my Uncle Septimus.

Now this, naturally, put me in a very difficult position. One cannot leave one's own flesh and blood lying helplessly akimbo in the public highway. Indeed, I could not have left anyone at all in such a position, given the number of casual thieves infesting the place. Had he been a stranger, I should have had no qualms about going through his pockets until I found some indication of where he lived or was staying, hailing a hansom, and taking him home. I was indeed very tempted to do just that, since he seemed to be too drunk to recognise me. However, I had no idea how long he would remain in that state, and I did not like to imagine the consequences if he suddenly realised who I was in the cab. So, very reluctantly, I hoisted him to his feet (did I mention the fact that Uncle Septimus is a large man?) and half walked, half dragged him the rest of the way to my lodgings. It did not help that he sang a number of exceedingly vulgar music-hall songs en route, but at least there was the very slight consolation that he sang them in English, so not every casual passer-by would have understood them.

My lodgings were fairly modest at the time. I was not poor, but I have always tended to prioritise careful dress over creature comforts, and so I was buying my clothes from a good tailor; not the one Master Gil went to, who was even more expensive and considerably more fashionable, but one who I considered did neater work. Consequently I had no sofa, so I was forced to put Uncle Septimus in my own bed and settle down as best I could on the floor in the little parlour. There were cushions, so it was not as uncomfortable as it might have been, but still I did not sleep well that night.

Uncle Septimus was unwell in the night. I shall spare you the unpleasant details of that. To be honest he was not a great deal better in the morning, but he did, at least, recognise me by that point.

“Ardsley, m'boy,” he said. “Good to see you. What the devil are you doing in Paris?”

“You know very well what I'm doing, uncle,” I replied. “I'm studying for my Master's degree at the Sorbonne.” And that was true, though I will confess I did not need to study particularly hard. Having been brought up bilingual, I have always had a good ear for languages. I merely read two or three books and wrote a couple of essays every week; there was, of course, my dissertation, but I worked at that in odd moments through the year.

“Oh. Is that why you're living in this infernal hole?”

“I'm quite happy with it, uncle,” I said, rather stiffly. “Besides, I might ask what you yourself are doing in Paris. I had no idea you were here.”

“Well, your Aunt Emmeline threw me out,” he explained, quite unrepentantly, “so I thought I might as well go off and enjoy myself.”

“She... threw you out?” I was startled. I knew things had not been going well between them, but I regularly heard from Aunt Emmeline, as indeed I still do, and I had had no news from her of this development.

“I'm not surprised she didn't tell you, m'boy. There was a chorus girl.” He leered. “Not the sort of thing she likes to talk about.”

“I'm very surprised it's the sort of thing _you_ like to talk about, uncle,” I replied. “In your position I should be ashamed.”

“Yes, well, you wouldn't _be_ in my position, would you? You're as bad as your aunt. How old are you now? What, twenty? Twenty-one? And you're already a blasted fossil.”

“I am not a fossil,” I said, stung. “If I weren't at least reasonably tolerant, I assure you I wouldn't be going round Paris with Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. But he's different; he never presses his attentions on married women, and I believe he will be faithful to his wife if he himself ever marries.”

His eyes gleamed. “Gilgamesh Wulfenbach, you say? Really?”

“Yes. He's my best friend. And I am, in fact, twenty-two.”

“Well! Perhaps you've got a bit more spirit in you than I thought.” He grinned, rather unpleasantly. “I think I'd like to meet your best friend, m'boy.”

I realised, too late, the likely consequences. He might well like to meet Master Gil, but I was fairly sure Master Gil's delight at making his acquaintance would be distinctly moderate.

“You're hesitating,” he said. “Are you sure he's really your best friend?”

“I think I would know, uncle,” I said, more sharply than I intended. I do not like to be accused of lying; even in this profession, it is something I do my best to avoid.

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, at that moment there was a loud knock on the door. I ran to answer it, and there stood Master Gil himself, looking dishevelled, unshaven and furious.

“She stole my wallet!” he exploded, without preamble.

“Oh dear,” I said. “I'm very sorry to hear that. I expect you would like to borrow something?”

“A razor, first of all,” he said, striding into the room. “What are all these cushions doing on the floor, Wooster? Looks as though your chairs have been fighting.”

“Oh... I had to sleep on them,” I explained.

He grinned. “Sweet lightning, Wooster, you've not got a woman, have you?”

“If I had, I should hardly let her sleep here,” I pointed out. “No. I have, in fact, got my Uncle Septimus. And I might add that I did not ask to have my Uncle Septimus.”

Master Gil scratched his chin. “You do look a bit ruffled. How did you end up entertaining this relative?”

“Drunk,” I muttered.

“What, you were?”

“No. He was. In fact, I'd swear he's still a bit lit up. But they kicked him out of that nightclub round the corner, and he landed right at my feet. What else could I do?”

“ _That_ place?”

“Well, his tastes aren't exactly refined,” I admitted.

“Even the Jägers think that place is a dive,” said Master Gil. “What the hell did he do to get himself thrown out?”

“I have not dared to enquire. But you wanted to borrow a razor. You'd better go into the bathroom quickly, before he surfaces.”

“I see.” He gave me an odd look. “Of course, one can't help one's relatives, but you are the last person I'd have imagined to have a disreputable uncle.”

“I have a wide and interesting selection of relatives,” I replied.

“And which is Uncle Septimus? Wide, or interesting?”

“Both,” I said.

“Ah.”

“There's still some reasonably warm water left,” I said. “I shaved myself not very long ago. But if it's not enough, I'll heat up some more for you...”

Uncle Septimus chose this moment to lurch out of my bedroom onto the scene. I think it is fair to say that he was not a sight for sore eyes. Although I wear my nightshirts comfortably loose, none of those I had came near to fitting him, so in desperation I had cut a neck hole out of the middle of an old sheet, tacked a very rough hem in place around it, and run another couple of lines of tacking up the sides for the sake of decency. He had an unhealthy, greenish pallor about his face and huge dark circles under his eyes, and he still smelt very strongly of cheap liquor.

“Who the devil's this?” he demanded, unceremoniously.

“Ah,” I said. “Uncle Septimus, allow me to introduce Master Gilgamesh Wulfenbach.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” said Uncle Septimus. “So you're the famous Wulfenbach boy, are you? You look younger than Ardsley here.”

“He is,” I replied. “Master Gil is studying for his bachelor's degree.”

“Haw, haw!” laughed Uncle Septimus, then groaned and clapped a hand to his brow. “Ow.”

“And you're the black sheep of the Wooster family, are you?” asked Master Gil.

“Oh, I'm not a Wooster,” said Uncle Septimus. “I'm just married to one. Well, she threw me out, but technically, you know... Anyway, my name's Thornbury.”

“You seem to be getting yourself thrown out rather often,” Master Gil observed.

“Indeed,” I said, “and I'm going to make it a third time, uncle. I can't possibly allow you to stay here. Once you are recovered enough to leave, I wish you to return to your own lodgings.”

Master Gil looked at him, and then at me. “One good turn deserves another, Wooster. Would you like me to escort him?”

“You're a brick,” I said, gratefully.

I did, as it happened, need to heat up some more water for Master Gil, but that was no problem. Meanwhile, Uncle Septimus collapsed into a chair and started slurring a volley of extremely personal questions at Master Gil, which, I must say, he fielded most adroitly. I expect he was used to dealing with much the same from his father, and Uncle Septimus must have been very easy by comparison.

I toasted some muffins for breakfast. I doubted that Uncle Septimus would be in a fit state to eat anything, and I was not sure whether or not Master Gil would, but at least if I toasted too many I could have any leftovers for tea. As it happened, Master Gil was ravenous, so there was no difficulty there. I gave Master Gil a banknote, explaining, of course, that I would not expect him to pay me back whatever portion of it was required to take my uncle back to wherever he was living. Uncle Septimus was still lounging about the place in his improvised nightshirt, and was quite reluctant to dress in order to leave; but Master Gil has quite a persuasive way about him when he so desires, and so between us we got him into his clothes. I had to “lend” him a front collar stud, which I knew very well I should never see again, but I suppose it might have been a great deal worse.

I was greatly relieved when Master Gil finally escorted him out. It was painful to have to inform him that he would not be welcome to return, but, quite apart from my own difficulties with him, I felt it would be a slight to my Aunt Emmeline if I were to harbour him after knowing what had happened.

I was a little rattled after that, as you can no doubt imagine, and therefore I decided to take refuge in some of this week's required reading. I was fortunate in that I enjoyed almost all of the books which were set for the course. Consequently, by the time Master Gil returned, I was so far engrossed in a ponderous but beautiful German text that I realised with a start that it was after two and I had not yet had lunch.

“Wooster,” he said. “Your money. It's all right. Take the lot. Father's just upped my allowance.”

“But my uncle...”

He gave me one of those looks that I now believe he inherited directly from the Baron. “As far as I am concerned, Wooster, there is no such person as your uncle. He does not exist. He is, shall we say, a figment of the collective imagination.”

“What has he done?” I asked cautiously.

“Since there is no such person, he can hardly be said to have done anything, can he?”

I panicked. “Tell me you didn't drop him in the Seine!”

“Oh, take that look off your face. Would I bother to do that to a person who, as I believe I have just repeatedly emphasised, does not exist?”

I stared at him, not knowing exactly what to say.

Master Gil glowered. “There will be no questions, and if you attempt to ask him about it, I assure you he will not tell you. I made it perfectly clear to him that if he ever tells you any details regarding what happened, I will find him and I will kill him.”

I continued to stare.

“I'm not blaming you in the slightest, Wooster,” said Master Gil, in a more reasonable voice. “As I said before, you can't do anything about your relatives, and I know he didn't give you an easy time either.”

“But... what...?” I stammered.

“He has embarrassed _me_ ,” said Master Gil, majestically.

 

 


End file.
